


and i believe that if i chase something, i'll end up with what i deserve

by errantgods



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Kissing, M/M, POV Andrew, Post-Canon, Soft Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard, What Are Andrew And Neil, chapter 2 is just hardcore morning andreil fluff, hand holding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-03
Updated: 2019-06-03
Packaged: 2020-04-07 07:38:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19080481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/errantgods/pseuds/errantgods
Summary: In Andrew's room, Neil is waiting for him by the door, loose-limbed and serious, waiting for Andrew to draw where the lines are tonight.Andrew closes the door carefully, channeling as much control as he can into the motion. He turns to face Neil, taking a moment to measure his own state of mind, gauge Neil's, before he leans against the door, putting space between the two of them. "Yes or no?" he asks.Neil steps forward, patient, leans in just barely, and says, clear and level, "Yes."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this is like an andrew who is ongoingly introspective & allowing himself to have nice things so i'm sorry if he And neil are suspiciously Soft but this was fun to write so i'm not that sorry
> 
> also impulsively changed the preview/summary to better capture the overall tone!

“Neil?” Erik points his hand at Neil with the great seriousness of someone who is holding his sixth beer, demanding Neil’s undivided attention for what is, to Erik’s jetlagged and inebriated mind, probably the most important question of all time.

Neil, from his corner seat in their living room in Columbia on the arm of Andrew’s chair, raises an amused eyebrow and gives Erik his attention. Andrew wonders, both amazed and offended, if he picked up the gesture from him.

On the couch, Erik tightens his one-armed grip around Nicky’s shoulders reassuringly and Nicky practically melts into the touch, not even pretending he has any dignity left.

Even Aaron and Katelyn glance up from the kitchen counter, where they’re stubbornly studying for _god only knows what_ three days before Christmas. Kevin, unmoved, takes a swig of vodka and spitefully turns up the volume on the Exy highlight reel he’s watching on the stairs, texting Coach Wymack (Father Wymack) as he goes. Andrew’s not sure he could survive having Kevin as a son.

Carefully, Erik asks his question: “Neil. What _are_ you guys?”

Neil (two beers, a gin and tonic, and a whiskey into the night, and lacking any concept of how communicating with people works on his best day) just frowns and makes this confused noise. The way he shoves his face forward to indicate a need for elaboration is stupidly captivating to Andrew.

Andrew half-twitches, puts down his third, half-finished whiskey, and focuses on the space separating them. The way that Neil’s hunched over even as he talks to Erik, his whole body angled toward Andrew like he’s holding something precious between the two of them, makes Andrew jumpy. His brain freezes, resets, refocuses on the conversation passing him by.

On the couch, Nicky is giggling shamelessly, three sheets to the wind and clinging to Erik so affectionately that Andrew feels like an interloper on their reunion, even though Nicky wouldn’t care stoned or stone-cold sober. He whispers conspiratorially, at an incredible volume, “Erik, I don’t think he understands what you mean.”

Neil grumbles, looks at Andrew for an explanation, embarrassing himself with how pouty he looks. Andrew picks up his whiskey again to make it clear to Neil that he will not be helping him here. As he takes a long sip, Andrew decides two things: first, this is the most not-sober he’s been probably ever; and second, watching this play out might be fun.

Erik after planting a sloppy kiss on Nicky’s cheek,  recaptures his audience for interrogation. “Neil. What I mean is, what...what _is_ Andrew to you?”

Andrew thinks, _surely this will be enough. Neil must get it now._ Neil sways gently, pensively, for a moment, then gestures expansively to Andrew and says, seriously, “He’s Andrew.”

Alas, Andrew occasionally doesn’t want to kill the most oblivious person in the entire country. Even worse, he’s the most perceptive person Andrew knows, too, so this really is the most embarrassing thing he’s ever witnessed.

“Oh my god,” he declares. He’s just had an epiphany. “Being with you is literally just the blind leading the blind.” As he says this, it becomes clear that something has gone terribly wrong, somehow.

Neil has turned to look at him like he’s just declared that he plans to streak at the next press event, and Andrew feels that, without permission, beyond the fact that he has just erroneously characterized his not-relationship with Neil in almost affectionate terms, Andrew is _smiling_. Oh _god_.

When he stops smiling, Neil frowns, and holy shit he really is pouting now. He leans in and catches Andrew’s restless eye with the same earnest urgency that has convinced Andrew to make many stupid decisions, like, for instance, trusting Neil. “No, listen, you’re _Andrew_.”

The way he says it, like it’s so obvious but like it’s so much more than a stupid name, makes Andrew feel a little bit like he’s been whacked across the ribs with a racquet. Something is readjusting, settling and throwing up clouds of debris in his stomach. It’s hard to breathe with Neil looking at him like that, and he has to look away before Nicky or Aaron sees whatever just happened on his face.

Which, maybe wasn’t a danger because Nicky looks like he’s about to cry. Seems excessive, even if Andrew isn’t a hundred percent sure what happened while he was color swatching Neil’s eyes. “Erik,” he declares like he’s desperate to have confirmation, “Erik, Andrew and Neil are _with_ each other. They’re _together_.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Andrew says, collapsing back into his seat. Neil’s looking at him like he hit reset on the inappropriately-earnest-sharing meter and, really, fuck that shit-eating all-knowing smile.

“Aaron, oh my god, Andrew and Neil are _together_.” Completely unavoidable.

Aaron, sober, looks up at Andrew and Neil accusingly, like they’ve personally destroyed any potential joy he may experience this holiday season. He jabs a finger at them and says, “You’re together,” like an insult, or a threat, or maybe even a command. Katelyn grabs their books and hot chocolates and leads him to the room they’re in by the arm. _What the fuck_.

Erik laughs loud and shameless while Nicky claps his hands sloppily. “Kevin. Kevin listen. Kevin did you hear? Kevin you have to tell Coach. Andrew and Neil are _together_.”

Kevin violently pauses the video he’s watching and snatches up his little camp. “Yeah, no shit. I’ll be in the fucking bathroom until y’all run out of booze.”

Andrew is perversely amused by the fact that, relegated to the couch until Katelyn goes to join her family the day after tomorrow, Kevin has to put up with this shit.

Nicky, clearly disappointed that Kevin and Aaron are not popping open a bottle of champagne, grabs Erik by the hand so fiercely that the man winces like he’s not a competitive rock-climber. “Erik, where’s my phone? I have to tell Allison and Matt about this _right now_. Erik, _please_ this is life or death where is my phone?”

Erik snatches said phone from between the empty beer bottles on the coffee table and begins a very hands-on game of keepaway with his boyfriend. He sends an inexplicably friendly wink in the direction of Neil and Andrew, jerking his chin towards the staircase so they can escape before Nicky starts trying to get photographic evidence of this _momentous_ occasion.

Neil leads their great escape, leaving Erik and Nicky laughing hysterically over the phone as it flies toward the kitchen in its own, independent bid for freedom.

In Andrew’s room, Neil is waiting for him by the door, loose-limbed and serious, waiting for Andrew to draw where the lines are tonight.

Andrew closes the door carefully, channeling as much control as he can into the motion. He turns to face Neil, taking a moment to measure his own state of mind, gauge Neil’s, before he leans against the door, putting space between the two of them. “Yes or no?” he asks.

Neil steps forward, patient, leans in just barely, and says, clear and level, “Yes.”

Andrew relaxes completely for a split second, then tenses, and reaches forward to pull Neil in for a kiss by the back of his neck. He gets lost in the pressure for a moment, his head spinning, everything in him whirring to a complete stop before shuddering back to life, pushes, pushes, pushes, relishes these two points of contact--hand on neck, lips on lips--so much he can’t imagine wanting to do anything but this for the rest of his life.

The kiss breaks apart. One point of contact, connecting them while Andrew tries to pull the disparate parts of his brain back together, to get his muscles to listen to what they’re supposed to do again, with Neil breathing right against his lips, _right there_.

Andrew blinks, feels a brief, unshakeable something, like the nearness of everything he absolutely shouldn’t be stupid enough to believe he can have, everything here _with_ Neil, everything in this house, everything a phone call away; everything everything everything.

When he catches his breath, Neil is watching him with a kind of understanding that Andrew never thought he could find, never thought he would _want_ to find. And if Neil were anyone else, he would say something stupid and obvious like “We’re together,” but Andrew chose _Neil_ , so they just get into bed, a few shaky steps from perfect sobriety, and they leave space for each other in the middle.


	2. and i believe that if i make something new, you'll love me for myself and everything i've been through

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Andrew wakes up the next morning, everything in his room is striped with light from the blinds, and he’s alone. He can hear Neil showering, and takes this brief moment alone to stretch out and sink deeper under the covers.
> 
> If Neil’s obsessed and ridiculous enough to get up and go for a run at six in the morning, Andrew can be spiteful and ridiculous enough to not let him come back to bed at seven-thirty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> listen to so long by abhi the nomad :-)

When Andrew wakes up the next morning, everything in his room is striped with light from the blinds, and he’s alone. He can hear Neil showering, and takes this brief moment alone to stretch out and sink deeper under the covers.

If Neil’s obsessed and ridiculous enough to get up and go for a run at six in the morning, Andrew can be spiteful and ridiculous enough to not let him come back to bed at seven-thirty.

His eyes are closed again by the time Neil comes back into the room, and he opens them to watch the ceiling fan rocking gently, interfering with the sunlight shadows. Neil moves in the periphery, and Andrew meets his eye without moving.

Neil is watching him, considering something carefully. If he tries to talk about their _togetherness_ , Andrew will deny everything outright, if for no other reason than to stop Nicky and the upperclassmen from ever mentioning it again. And, tragically, he kind of really doesn't want to do that.

And somehow, it’s like Neil can read those thoughts fluently on his face, because he huffs out a little laugh and leans over. “Can I join you?” Not quite a question, more a challenge.

Part of Andrew wants to push him, see what exactly Neil plans to do if he doesn’t move over, but it’s easier to kiss him when Neil’s face isn’t so much closer to the ceiling, so he glares murderously at him and, with an appropriately exasperated grunt, rolls over to one side.

With Neil right next to him, the two of them face to face here, before the rest of the house is awake, Andrew _wants_ something that he doesn’t understand.

Neil sees it, of course. “What?”

Andrew frowns, his eyes flicking to where Neil’s arms are crossed across his chest. His hair is getting damp on everything, and half his face is buried in the pillow. He tries to decipher _what_ he wants, but, even if he could, he can’t bridge the gap between what he wants and how to ask for it.

Instead, he says, quiet, a little rough, the first words he’s said today, “Yes or no?”

Neil looks confused, clearly wondering if this is an answer or a distraction, but says, “Yes,” matching Andrew’s volume.

Andrew leans in, his posture mirroring Neil’s perfectly, and kisses him. It’s different this time, unfamiliar for both of them. He _feels_ just as desperate as he always does for everything everything everything, but it also feels less like he’s trying to break something out of his chest and more like he’s trying to make something new altogether.

It’s a slow kiss; it’s not frantic and it’s not building up to anything, but when Andrew leans away, Neil follows for a second, eyes closed, and Andrew thought that the kiss would _help_ but the something humming in his chest is getting louder and louder the longer he looks at whatever is chasing its way across Neil’s face.

Neil opens his eyes like he, too, has just realized something important, but above all when he looks at Andrew he’s _patient_ and Andrew, really, really doesn’t know what that means for. For them.

He wants to provoke something but he doesn’t understand what’s going on, so when he opens his mouth, all that comes out is, “Erik and Nicky.”

Neil pulls out of Andrew’s personal space so he can try to puzzle out where the fuck Andrew’s cousin comes into this particular, arguably intimate moment. He says, carefully, “What about them?”

Andrew pulls one of his arms away from his chest and drops it on the bed between them, clenching his fingers into a fist. He’s not wearing his armbands, and when he looks at how pale his forearm is, when he sees the inside of his wrist, he wants to pull it back to his torso, hide it from prying eyes, but the only person here is Neil.

Neil, who responds with a fist of his own, revealing the angry scars on his own wrist, his own arm, dropping next to Andrew’s, a bare inch away.

Andrew tries to speak again, before he knows exactly what he wants to say, because Neil is still being so _fucking_ patient like he knows it’s exactly what Andrew needs, but he doesn’t realize that it’s also fucking terrifying. What does Neil _want_ from him?

“Don’t you want--” he stops, frustrated by how impossible it is to translate this into words. “Erik and Nicky, they’re _casual_ around one another.” His hand twitches like it remembers the way they were holding hands, leaning into one another. Not like they were doing anything else, just like they were _being_ together. Not anything like Andrew.

And Neil, Andrew knows, can read everything he’s saying in that twitch. Andrew abruptly realizes he really doesn’t want to know what Neil wants, doesn’t want to know right now if he can’t give it to him.

Neil hums thoughtfully, carefully considering the mistake that Andrew has just put them on a collision course with. Andrew’s insides are knotting themselves tighter with every silent moment, but when Neil speaks, it’s to say, “Well, that depends. Is any of that on the table?”

Andrew hates the way his guts immediately start to untwist themselves, the way Neil has said the right thing when Andrew was sure there was no right thing to say. In response, he lifts his hand up between them and lets it hover, open, over Neil’s, tries very hard not to think about this too much.

Neil, without hesitation, opens his own hand, letting it rest palm up, and meets Andrew’s eye when he says, “Yes.”

Andrew weaves their fingers together, focuses on how rough their calluses feel against each other, the scars on Neil’s fingers and the way the scars on his knuckles must feel, determined not to think too hard about how something is definitely bubbling up in his stomach that is unspeakably dangerous.

“Andrew,” Neil says, squeezing his hand, and _oh, wow, yeah, this was a mistake_. Andrew squeezes back. “I want whatever you’ll give me. Just you.”

Andrew feels exposed, and ridiculous, like he’s been dropped in the middle of a fucking romcom. “Of course. So now _you’re_ the one who wants nothing. Bullshit.” But he’s looking at their hands, how simple this feels, and he hopes he’s wrong.

Neil smirks, tilts his head into his pillow. “Well,” he considers, “Imagine my surprise when I realized you have a smile like that.”

Andrew groans and lets go of his hand, reaching halfheartedly towards his armbands for his knives. “I fucking hate you,” but he can feel the corners of his lips pulling up, just a little, like they don’t understand what a threat’s supposed to look like.

As he rolls out of bed, Neil laughs, bright and loud, and his smile makes Andrew lose track of what the fuck he's doing for a second.


End file.
